


The Divine and the Unerring

by adjourn



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Abuse of console commands, Action/Adventure, Character Death, Drama, Gen, Girl falls into video game!, God Complex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjourn/pseuds/adjourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stuck in Skyrim with the power of console commands at her fingertips, the newly renamed Aule is ready for an adventure.</p>
<p>Too bad for Skyrim that she's a complete asshole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the birth of a god

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is also posted on fanfiction.net at:  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10351111/1/The-Divine-and-the-Unerring
> 
> Anyway, I wrote this because I couldn't get it out of my head. Not sure if I'll continue it, but if I do, updates will be sporadic. Hope you enjoy, and please kudos/comment/bookmark if you enjoy! I'd love some feedback, if you have any criticisms, too.

"Kill one man, and you are a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill them all, and you are a god."

-Jean Rostand, _Thoughts of a Biologist_

...

_the birth of a god_

...

Ulfric Stormcloak laid unmoving, his corpse frigid as the surrounding winter. Snow fell lightly upon his golden locks, crowning his hair in a wreath of white.

Galmar Stone-Fist, slumped against the wall of the Palace of the Kings, feebly attempted to remove the sword lodged in his abdomen.

Ysarald Thrice-Pierced's eyes focused on the figure laughing over Ulfric's body, fury hot as dragon-fire burning through his veins.

And these words echoed through the ancient halls of the Palace of the Kings:

" _Hah!_ Essential NPC my ass!"

...

SOME DAYS PRIOR

Scouts-Many-Marshes paused as he lifted another crate destined for the Northern Maiden, a distinct shape in the water catching his attention. He narrowed his eyes, which quickly widened when he realized exactly what was floating on the icy river: a human lying unconscious on some large, rectangular object. Without really thinking about it, he leapt into the water, intent on rescuing the possibly dead human.

"What do you think you're doing?" yelled Suvaris Atheron, nearly dropping her logbook in shock. "Get out of the water, you crazy lizard!"

Scouts-Many-Marshes paid her no heed, swimming toward the human with a speed and grace that only an Argonian can manage. He pushed the unfamiliar object the human female laid upon toward the docks with ease and climbed up on the pier, then lifted the apparently Nord girl from the smooth, buoyant item and checked her for a pulse.

A solid heartbeat thrummed under the flesh of her warm neck. She was alive. Scouts-Many-Marshes felt vast relief at the girl's survival, for all that she was a stranger. He had already witnessed far too many succumb to the merciless cold of this land.

"What exactly did you drag in here, lizard?" Suvaris sneered. The expression quickly disappeared from her features when she saw the limp human in his arms, replaced by a wary look. "Is she alive?"

"She lives," he confirmed.

"What's all the commotion over here?" said a guard who had wandered over. Scouts-Many-Marshes could not see his face under the mask, but imagined he must have looked surprised. "Who in Talos' name is this?"

"I do not know. I found her in the water," replied Scouts-Many-Marshes. "She is alive, though, and does not seem to be injured." Or cold, he thought. How odd. He knew Nords were naturally resistant to the cold, but this was unprecedented. Unless she hadn't been floating in the river for too long...

The guard started suddenly and hastily took the girl from Scouts-Many Marshes' arms, likely realizing that he had allowed a Nord to be saved and held by a lowly Argonian. Scouts-Many-Marshes did not take offense. It was just the way of things.

"I'll take her from here," the guard said roughly, and began a swift pace to the steps leading into Windhelm.

Scouts-Many-Marshes looked on at the seemingly impenetrable city walls and wondered if the girl would be informed of her Argonian rescuer.

"Get back to work," Suvaris ordered, scribbling in her logbook.

...

"Divines!" cried Viola Giordano, scurrying over to the guard. "Who is that?"

"She was found floating in the river by the docks," he said curtly, having no patience to deal with the old woman's nosiness. "Excuse me, ma'am. I must get her to the Palace immediately."

"The Palace? You ought to bring her to Candlehearth. The poor thing might freeze to death in such little clothing!" Viola insisted. And it was true, for the girl — who to the guard, was more a young woman — was wearing scandalously little: the remains of a pair of vibrantly-colored trousers, cut to above mid-thigh, and a dark, thin shirt. "I'll ask Jora to come over, take a look at her."

That did seem like a reasonable plan, but the guard was a suspicious sort, and he thought that a girl floating down the river dressed in strange clothes and rescued by an Argonian was very suspicious, and he had it in his mind that she might be a Legion spy. Although, she was tall enough to be a Nord, and she did not have the sharper features of an Imperial, but the dark hair and somewhat tanned skin were distinctly so. And not all Imperials were Legionnaires, and perhaps she wasn't even an Imperial after all, but it never hurt to be safe. Besides, there were any number of other things she could be: a Dark Brotherhood assassin, a thief with the Guild (though they hadn't been heard from in a while).

"I don't think that's a good idea, ma'am," said the guard, attempting to be polite despite his agitation at the old woman's interference. "If you'll excuse me, I really must head to the Palace."

"Young man, I respect the work you do in protecting this city, but I simply cannot in good conscience allow you to present this young lady in front of the Jarl when she's in such a state!" Viola protested, and her lips sent in a determined line so that the wrinkles around her mouth deepened.

"The state she is in is not my concern," snapped the guard, losing his patience. "She could be a Legion spy, and I will not compromise—"

"Oh, hush! The poor thing is not a spy," Viola said. "By the Nine, you soldier-types are all batty!"

"I do not believe _we_ are the batty ones, _ma'am_ ," the guard said.

It was at about this moment that the young woman in his arms woke up and was so startled at the sudden, bitter cold and the sensation of being carried that she tumbled out of the guard's arms.

"Now look what you've caused," admonished Viola. The guard ignored the old woman and bent down to address the young one instead.

"Who are you? What's going on? Where am I?" the bewildered girl-of-questionable-race questioned, shivering, whether from fear or cold unclear.

"You are in Windhelm, citizen," said the guard, attempting to soften a bit. He did not succeed, for he was still quite irritable from his disagreement with Viola, and instead sounded rather brusque. The young woman flinched, eyeing the sword strapped to his waist with extreme apprehension. "A worker rescued you from the frigid waters of the White River."

"Windhelm?" repeated the woman dubiously. "Really? Like, with Ulfric Stormcloak and everything?"

"Indeed," said the guard stiffly, though he was not quite sure what she meant by "everything."

"That's impossible," she said flatly, and then glanced around the at the stone walls and the falling snow. "Impossible. Where am I?" she demanded, a bit hysterically this time.

"You really are in Windhelm, dearie," Viola said gently. "Are you a long way from home?"

"A long way is one way of putting of it," the woman scoffed. She picked herself up on shaky legs and wrapped her arms around herself. "Right, I'm freezing, so. I'm going to head to...Candlehearth."

"I'm afraid you have to come with me first," the guard said, grabbing her arm before she could run off. This girl was getting more suspicious by the second. "I need to take you to see the Jarl. We can't have random strangers wandering about the city, you see."

She looked at the gloved hand wrapped around her bicep disbelievingly. "This is a dream. Or a hallucination. You're not real," she said.

Clearly, she was a lunatic, decided the guard. And they couldn't have those running around the city. Or was this some elaborate cover-up for an assassination? A fake identity, pretending to be an innocent, confused straggler to start a new life and infiltrate Stormcloak ranks? Could be any of those, thought the guard.

"Just come with me," he said imperiously, now thoroughly convinced of the young woman's guilt. "The Jarl will decide what to do with you."

"Don't be so hard on her," said Viola, frowning. Her sly Imperial eyes seemed hungry for gossip, amd the guard felt an overwhelming frustration with her presence.

"Leave!" the guard barked at her, placing his free hand threateningly on his sword. "This is now official Stormcloak business. Any who interfere will face the consequences of the law."

Viola recoiled in half-shock, half-fear. She sniffed haughtily to disguise her distress and sputtered, "Why, I never!" before hastily retreating.

The guard tightened his grip around the young woman's arm and began a furious pace to the Palace of the Kings.

"You can't just drag me about! I don't want to see Ulfric!" she protested vehemently. "This is my goddamn dream! I don't want to meet that stupid bastard!"

The guard ignored the urge to smack her.

"Unless I get to kill him. Then that would be a great dream."

This time, he didn't. He stopped abruptly, releasing her arm and whirling around, his palm striking her cheek with a resounding _slap._ Her head whipped to the side and her entire body followed, crumpling on the stone steps.

"Shit! You stupid asshole, what was that for?"she yelled, tears forming in her eyes. The absent thought that they were icy blue, and she was maybe a Nord-Imperial mix, drifted through the guard's mind amidst a sharp spike of anger.

"An Imperial supporter should be more watchful of her tongue, lest it be cut out," he spat acerbically. He then yanked her up harshly by the arm, taking vindictive pleasure in the pained noise she made at his cruel grip. "You are by far the worst spy, or assassin, or whatever it is that you are, I have ever met."

She remained quiet, glaring at him with fury painted on her features. It was nothing the guard hadn't seen before, and he began walking to the Palace entrance. She followed silently, stewing in her anger. The guard hoped she would rot in the dungeons for her words against Jarl Ulfric.

...

Ulfric Stormcloak watched the bruised girl in front of him smolder under his heavy stare, silently assessing her. The guard who had brought her in was convinced that she was likely a spy, assassin or thief, and up to no good, but Ulfric did not see it—not in her eyes, or her posture, or her fidgeting hands, and certainly not in the flimsy clothes she was dressed in. What Ulfric did see, however, was an intense dislike for him that marred her features with a disgusted scowl.

"What is your purpose in my city?" he said slowly, leisurely, almost uncaring. _You are nothing_ , the current of his powerful voice whispered, _you are beneath me._

"Nothing. I just want to get out of this goddamned place. Why the fuck I would dream about coming here, of all places, is a real mystery to me," she spat acerbically.

Ulfric narrowed his eyes. "You will show respect to the noble city of Windhelm, girl," he said strictly. "Ysgramor himself constructed these walls, as a testament to the power of Men."

"No way. This place is a racist hellhole," she said, glaring at him. "And you're just as much of an asshole in dreams as you are in the game. No surprise there."

He felt no true anger at her derogatory remarks, for she was a ragged girl and he was a king, but he was a bit bemused at her talk of dreams and games. Of course, he did not express his puzzlement to her, instead turning to address the guard.

"Why does she speak of such queer matters?" said Ulfric.

"I do not know, Jarl Ulfric," the guard said promptly, his back ramrod straight and voice a bit high with nerves. "She has spoken of being in a dream or a hallucination. I suspect she is not quite right in the head, or putting on an act as a spy," suggested the guard, again.

The girl seemed perfectly sane to him, but Ulfric had dealt with the matter long enough. He had a war to run, and had dallied about on his throne for too long already.

"Do you feel she is a threat to our city, or our cause?" Ulfric asked.

"Yes, my Jarl," the guard replied firmly. "She said herself that she wished to take your life."

Ulfric doubted that this slip of a girl could even touch him before he had separated her head from her body, much less kill him, but he supposed that it was her intent that mattered.

"Take her to the dungeons," Ulfric said, dismissing the guard with a wave of his hand. "There will be no danger in my city."

The guard nodded and said resolutely, "Of course, my Jarl!"

Moments later, the girl had disappeared into the dungeons of the Palace of the Kings. Ulfric very nearly forgot about the entire happening, so caught up with the war as he was, and the urgent matter of tracking down the Dragonborn, who'd been called by the Greybeards to High Hrothgar not two days ago, the power of their Thu'um washing over every corner of Skyrim like a tidal wave smothering a drowning sailor lost in the Sea of Ghosts.

...

She'd been in the dank, filthy cell for days now, and was almost entirely convinced that this ordeal was not a dream after all. Everything felt far too vivid: the gnawing hunger in her stomach, the scratch of thirst at her throat, the bruises from the guard's visit. He'd come in to check on her the morning after her imprisonment, trying to identify her as a spy or some nonsense, and she'd been sore and unhappy after a night on the cold stone, and had not been very cooperative. The "conversation" had ended with him grabbing her through the cell bars and slamming her face into said bars multiple times, because the guy was a clearly a goddamn nutjob.

She gingerly touched her cheek, wincing at the pain. This sucked. It was not at all how she imagined getting stuck in a video game would go. None of those daydreams involved asshole guards with anger management problems rearranging her face by means of prison bars.

"I can hear you fuming through the wall," said her fellow prisoner dryly.

"Mind your own business," she snapped, not exactly in a conversational mood. The guy was kind of annoying—needlessly snarky and very patronizing, which she could normally handle fine. But this...this was a special situation, and she was not in a great mood.

"You've got a good fire in you, eh?" he said cheekily. "Still mad about your little spat with the guardsman from the other day?"

She didn't answer, instead cupping her hands over her mouth to trap the warm air in her palms. Dungeons were freezing.

"Not much of a talker, are you? I'll talk for both of us, then, don't worry. We'll be fast friends in no time, I promise you this," said the prisoner. "Let me tell you a story from when I was a young boy. I was out on my family's farm hoeing the land to—"

"He rearranged my goddamn face. Of course I'm mad. Happy, now that you've been enlightened as to the reason behind my awe-inspiring rage?" she interrupted, if only to get him to stop blabbering at her. But a thought struck her, and she added, "What's his problem, anyway? Did he try and 'interrogate' you, too? Is your face the same shade of purple as mine?"

The prisoner chuckled—a deep, hearty rumble that sounded too jovial to be sincere, too natural to be anything but rehearsed. She was distinctly reminded of the instances when friends who wanted to copy her homework pretended to laugh at her jokes.

"Not quite. I think he has a soft spot for you."

"Fantastic," she groaned. "Then it must be because he's a fanatic bastard with a disgusting case of blind hero worship. I say I want to a kill a _fictional_ _character_ , and he goes all apeshit..."

"What do you mean by that?"

She huffed. "Nothing. None of your business."

"We're both trapped in the same dungeon—we're each other's business now," he replied easily. A couple seconds ticked by in silence, but then his voice dropped to a whisper and he said, "Listen, if we work together, we can escape this place. I don't know about you, but I sure as Talos don't like being trapped in a cell day and night."

The annoyed expression dropped from her face, replaced by intrigue. She'd, of course, been contemplating escape as well. It wasn't as if _all_ the hours had passed by in dazed confusion, trying to rationalize the situation and reaffirm her own sanity. No, she had watched the guards come and go, making a rough schedule in her head of their shifts. A very rough schedule, mind you. It was difficult to determine the exact times when there was one tiny slot in the wall that brought in light and dark (and fresh air, which was nice, and cold, which was not as nice).

"You got a plan?" she asked.

"I can get us both out of our cells, no problem, but getting past the entire town guard is a different matter," he said. "And you don't really seem to be the sneaky type."

"You aren't wrong there." She could play hide-and-go-seek as well as the next guy, but she had no actual experience creeping around places like some RPG assassin. Which, now that she thought about it, this guy might be. In fact, if she was really in Skyrim, she might be talking to a Dark Brotherhood agent, for all she knew. "Hey, why are you in here?"

"Thieving. You?" he answered, wary of the sudden change of topic.

She tried to be a little less blunt, but ended up with: "Crazy guard. Are you with the guild?"

So sue her, she wasn't very subtle.

He paused a few seconds before answering: "What's it to you?"

She perked up a little. She was probably talking to an actual NPC from the Thieves Guild! This was much better than kneeling at Ulfric goddamn Stormcloak's feet. "Just wondering. What's your name?"

The prisoner laughed. "If you think I'm telling you that, then you're the crazy one. Not the guard fellow."

"Fine, I'll guess, then." Too excited to really think better of it, she began rattling off names: "Brynjolf? Actually, no, I doubt it, you haven't said 'lass' once. Hmm...you don't sound like Delvin. And I doubt those two would get caught anyway. Rune, maybe? Cynric? Niru-whatever? Thrynn?"

There was stone-cold silence. Oh, yeah. She might actually be in Skyrim, and not just a dream-hallucination that didn't have consequences. Had she just revealed herself as a possible threat to one of the most corrupt entities in the country? Man, this whole ordeal was scarier when she realized it might actually be real. Yelling at Ulfric had been a lot easier.

"How do you know all that?" the prisoner demanded, his voice like frozen steel. "Who are you?"

"I'm just a girl, you know, no big deal—uh, how about we get back to the escape plan?" she said nervously. "I suddenly realize I don't need to know your identity after all. Haha! Just kidding!"

"Tell me where you got that information, and maybe I won't need to step over to your cell and slit your throat," he threatened. "I have plenty of experience. I could have you bleeding out like a stuck pig within seconds, and the guards wouldn't even be able to tell that I'd picked the lock to either of our cells. I could make it look like suicide."

"Oh, you're totally Cynric," she blurted out, then winced a little. "Ah, fuck. Don't kill me. But, like, if you're Cynric, why are you still in here? You're literally a master jailbreaker."

"Each and every word that just came out of your mouth did nothing to persuade me from killing you," Cynric—it was totally Cynric—said sharply.

"I didn't get it from anyone, okay? I just know. And I'm not going to do anything to fuck with you guys, don't worry," she said in a placating manner.

"Forgive me for not trusting you."

She sighed. A beat passed as she thought about the best way to do this. "You know the guild's recent dry spell? I know the reason why. It's from the same source that gave me all the information on the members. If you get us out of Windhelm, then I will tell you _everything._ Deal?"

He scoffed, but took a few moments to mull it over. "Since I hold your future in my hands in regards to this agreement, we have a deal."

At that moment, steel-clad footsteps thundered down the stairs to the prison, effectively ending their discussion.

"The name's Cynric," he murmured reluctantly, just before the door to the room creaked open. "You were right."

Hell yeah she was.

...

"You need to cause some sort of distraction while I make contact with my people. One of them should be arriving in Windhelm tonight, and they can arrange transportation for our escape."

"What kind of distraction?" she asked apprehensively.

Cynric sighed wearily. "Well, you're going to need to distract Ulfric Stormcloak and Galmar Stone-Fist. They're the reason why I cannot simply sneak out of this place—it's too dangerous to risk getting their attention. If Galmar was off managing the troops like he usually is, it wouldn't be as difficult. But as it stands, Galmar is Ulfric's watch dog, and a good one, at that."

"So you're literally throwing me to the dogs? How the hell am I supposed to make a distraction without getting myself killed?"

"To be honest with you, I had originally planned on leaving you behind to die after you had served your purpose," Cynric admitted, which, well, was not that much of a surprise. There had been, after all, no apparent reason for him to help her except honor or something, and she didn't believe in honor. Rightly so, it seemed. "Now, though, I need you alive. You know about the threat to the guild."

"Right you are!" she said cheerfully. "So, you need to help me come up with a distraction plan that won't get me killed, Mr. Cynric. I'm sure you have something in mind, since you've done this a billion times before."

"We'll talk later," he said quickly as the door to the prisons opened.

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her, thinking up possible plans in her head. However, she had barely had time to come up with a rough idea of plan number one (somehow seduce Galmar) before the guard plodded over to her cell and fixed her with a faceless stare.

"Are you prepared to confess your true purpose in Windhelm, now?" the guard hissed, his steely tone still quite apparent, even through the muffle of his helmet.

Oh, great. It was the original asshole. "I don't have a purpose here, buddy, besides wanting to get the fuck out," she said scathingly. "Leave me the fuck alone already."

"You cannot hide behind filthy words from me," he said, and stepped closer to the bars. She hastily shrank back, not wanting him to mess up her face even more. "I will know your true motives, wretch. Who sent you to this city?"

"Jesus Christ! I have no motives!" she exclaimed, exasperated.

"Jesus Christ is the one who sent you? Tell me, what mission did his scoundrel order you on?"

"For the love of God," she groaned.

The guard reached for the keys jangling on his waist strap, and she backed up to the very corner of her cell in fright. If this guy was coming in there to, to _torture_ her, or, _rape_ , then—

"Who are you?" the guard questioned, slamming the cell door open. He slowly drew a dagger from his boot, and a chill ran down her spine. "If you would like, the information can be extracted."

"I'm literally just a random girl, please don't hurt me, I have zero pain tolerance, oh my God," she rambled, eyeing the sharp point of the dagger fearfully.

His hand shot out suddenly, grabbing her roughly by the wrist, and he dragged her out of the cell, throwing her to the floor. She gave a yelp as her bruised face slammed against the hard stone, the collision sending jarring pain throughout her system. The guard took hold of her hair and lifted up her head, forcing into view the various _medieval_ _torture_ _instruments_ in the prison.

"Wow, no, please don't do that," she said, words coming out rapid-fire and jumbled. "I am no one of importance, mean no harm to you or your city or Ulfric or whatever, if you torture me it'll just be an awful experience for both of us because I'll be screaming really grossly the whole time, so don't do that, torture is bad, you are violating the Universal Declaration of Human Rights _for sure_ right now—"

The guard didn't listen. He forced her to stand and shoved her toward that rectangular contraption she'd seen in the game that looked a little bit like a washboard. It was covered in blood. Oh fucking God. She turned to look at Cynric, a desperate expression on her face, but he was merely watching, not even a hint of concern or sympathy on his face. In fact, he looked as though he was totally down for the plan, because _right_ , he probably thought the guard would wrangle the information that Cynric needed from her. Fuck him. Fucking asshole.

Clearly, she couldn't trust anyone.

The guard took her arms. She broke out into a cold sweat. "Don't do this. Seriously, please don't do this. Oh my God. Oh my God. No, no, no. This is real. I'm actually in Skyrim, in a _goddamn_ video game, and I'm about to be _tortured_ —Fucking hell, if only I had console commands right now, I could just—"

A translucent black screen appeared in the bottom of her vision, just like in the game.

"What the fuck," she breathed. The panic drained out of her, though the guard was now beginning to strap her to the instrument. "What. The Fuck. TGM."

The throbbing pain from her bruises vanished. She no longer felt tired, hungry or thirsty. In fact, she was completely invigorated. She felt like she had all the energy in the world, like she had just woken up from a long, satisfying nap, and was ready to take on the universe.

The guard jumped back in shock. "By the Divines! W-witch!" he cried, drawing his sword.

She grinned. Her heart had slowed to its normal, steady thump, and her head had cleared. She could use console commands. She had activated godmode. She was in Skyrim, and she could use console commands.

_She could do anything._

"Windhelm guard," she said, and focused on him, because she certainly didn't have a neat little mouse to click on and select him. An ID number popped up at the top of the screen, just like in the game. He charged at her, but the glint of his blade brought no fear to her this time.

"Kill."

He dropped dead.

He literally _dropped dead_ —just crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. No painful, writhing heart attack, or even so much a gasp of surprise. Just—dead. Instantly.

She threw up right as Cynric broke out of his cell.

...

Scouts-Many-Marshes had experienced silence before. He had experienced a room of bustling discussion drop, very suddenly, to a hushed quiet. He had experienced the silence of a young hatchling's cries trailing off, ended by a frigid chill and empty bellies. He had experienced the hollow quiet ringing in his ears as he finally accepted that some things would not change, and family would not come back from the dead, no matter how much you wished they would.  

But he had never, ever experienced silence like this.

Windhelm, no matter how cold and dreary, was always bustling with some sort of noise, whether it be the marketplaces during the day, the taverns ringing with song in the evening, the soldiers joking amongst each other throughout their shifts. The docks were loud, and the gentle lull of the sea could always be heard even if no one was working.

The docks were empty now. The workers and sailors had filed into the city, looking around in abject horror.

Dead. Every single person in Windhelm was dead.

Not three minutes earlier, the alarm horn had been sounded, and the dock guards had rushed into the city, weapons drawn. Panicked shouts settled heavy into the air, before everything went silent at once. The clattering of weapons, the thud of bodies dropping to the floor—then nothing. A silence beyond any other silence he had ever experienced before.

Scouts-Many-Marshes looked around at the corpses, feeling bile rise in his throat. What could have possible done this? What could have killed so many people at the same time in a split-second, with no apparent cause of death? He shuddered. It must have been daedra, or something equally monstrous. By the Hist—this was the worst sight he had ever seen.

The sound of retching filled the air. He felt sick. He had never imagined this as being the first time he would step into the city: amidst a sea of corpses, the citizens and guards all snuffed of life like a pinched candle flame. The weather was what he'd imagined for a first visit, at least. It was sunny, blues skies, not a cloud in sight, _warm_ for once, which in his mind, would have signaled a new dawn for the Argonians down by the docks, new lives away from Nord prejudice. And in a sense, it did. All the racist residents of the city were dead.

But even with the sun beating down on his back, he didn't feel warm. Scouts-Many-Marshes was as cold as ever.

...

The tale of the incident at Windhelm spread through Skyrim like wildfire. Nearly an entire city dead in a heartbeat, with only three people to tell the tale of what had happened and one of them comatose. The war effort, now headed by Galmar Stone-Fist, had diminished greatly with the death of Ulfric Stormcloak, the fall of Ysarald Thrice-Pierced and the elimination of a major Stormcloak city. Windhelm was in disarray; the Hall of the Dead was filled with dead men, while the Dunmer bodies had been haphazardly tossed into the river, carried out to the Sea of Ghosts. The Argonians, though at last welcomed into the city, had refused to take up residence, and most had made the journey from Windhelm to Riften, seeking to escape the cloud of death that hung over the city. Windhelm was thus empty, excepting for the few soldiers who still held down the city against Imperial invasion.

Skyrim swelled with horrified rumors of who or what was responsible for the horrific tragedy. The stories ranged from divine interference smiting the Stormcloaks to a vicious, chance attack by a daedric prince. However, the truth behind the calamity was as evasive as the thief who was said to have bore witness to the entire happening, and so Skyrim remained in the dark, blistering with worry over what was the most shocking disaster in centuries.

 _"The Thalmor. An act of war by the Aldmeri Dominion. A conspiracy by the Empire. A daedric plot, like the Oblivion Crisis,"_ came the whispers in taverns and inns across the nation. And another rumor, more unbelievable than the others, originating from an Argonian who had hung himself the night after the decimation: _"It was all just by a girl. The birth of a god."_


	2. identity crisis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I kind of wrote myself into a corner with the previous version of this chapter (seriously, I have like four different versions of chapter 3), so this is the altered story. In which I veer the plot in a totally different direction. And by that I mean Aule is literally doing whatever the fuck she wants LOL. The beginning is still mostly the same, but then it changes dramatically. Hope you enjoy. Ideally I'll be better about updating this from now on because I know what I want to happen, but I'm a bit of a flaky asshole so. Thanks if you're still sticking with me :)

 

 

 

 

It had to be a god.

It just had to be a god—for obvious reasons, of course. And she wasn't going to name herself Zeus or Venus or Quetzalcoatl, or something equally ridiculous. No, no. It had to be dignified and meaningful and not extremely pretentious.

Thus, Lord of the Rings. She settled on Aulë mainly because it wasn't exhausting to say and also because he had basically _shaped the world_ , which just. So cool. She may have been a bit giddy throughout the whole naming herself process.

_(_ And, fine, maybe she wasn't a man, and maybe she had no clue about crafting things, but damn if she would not be just as powerful and awesome.)

Then, remove to accent on the "ë" to blend in with the rest of the Tamrielic names and bam! Radical new name for a radical new identity. She wasn't just going to walk around with some normal human name, after all. Maybe there should have been wistful nostalgia over parting with the name she had carried for so many years, but she was still riding the wave of delight at her most impossible dream coming true, and hadn't really cared that much about parting with a simple name.

It had been getting worn out anyways.

...

The first thing Aule had done upon gleefully hightailing it out of Windhelm was yell, "COC Nightgate Inn Cellar!" and find herself in a completely different location in the span of a blink, as if she had been in a coma for decades and woken up with the world transformed around her.

She stole approximately twelve (three, actually) empty journals, as well as a quill and ink pot, from the orc who lived in the basement. Then, she had flung herself on the bed, relishing in the feeling of the sweet, sweet fabric comforter—it was no Tempur-Pedic, but it sure as hell beat a filthy dungeon floor—and frantically scribbled down every single console command she could remember.

She may or may not have spilled copious amounts of ink on the bed while attempting to figure out how the hell to use a quill.

Aule was busy trying to remember which cheat changed people's attitude toward you when the aforementioned orc opened the door to his room, asked, "What in Divines are you doing in here?" and she'd sort of panicked and screamed, "Orc! Kill!" and then he'd dropped dead.

So. That whole situation nicely summed up her time in Skyrim so far.

The thing was, after that initial "Holy fuck I just killed someone" phase had worn off, she had realized she was in a _video game._ Clearly, despite how it was technically her new reality, nothing was actually real. Everyone in Windhelm she'd unintentionally murdered by shouting, "Kill all!" while surrounded by soldiers in the courtyard of the Palace of the Kings weren't actually real people. They were video game characters. She was the only _actual_ human being.

Still, that didn't mean she was just going to hang out in a room with a dead body in it.

"Disable," she said, and the corpse disappeared. The ID number was still hovering at the top of the command screen, and she scribbled "Nightgate orc 00038C6F" on a new page in case she ever wanted to bring him back.

Then, Aule continued writing down console commands, a bubble of giddiness tingling in her stomach and expanding with every stroke of ink.

She stayed in the cellar of Nightgate Inn for hours, jotting down everything she could remember and writing small descriptions next to them. She spent roughly an hour using the "help" command to search for the IDs of various objects, then compiling a list of those in another notebook. At one point, she had said "Player dot add item 0000000f 1,000" and ended up covered in shiny gold pieces, the clink of metal echoing throughout the room as she delightedly scooped coins into a backpack she found in the corner of the room.

Upon getting bored of being cooped up in the room and deciding that she had basically written down everything she remembered, Aule hoisted the now ridiculously heavy backpack over her shoulders and climbed out of the cellar through the trap door. The frosty evening was bright with thousands of shining stars, the white snow gleaming in the pale moonlight. She was still dressed in the same manner she had arrived—orange cotton pajama shorts, a thin black tank top, and no shoes—and marveled at how the frigid wind felt like a caressing sea breeze on her bare skin, how the crisp crunch of snow beneath her feet felt like walking on a plush carpet.

She strolled under the darkening sky to the front of Nightgate Inn, where the pier jutted out into Lake Yogrim. A sense of wonder overcame her. She was really, truly in Skyrim. She could explore the land to her heart's content: delve into Dwarven ruins and see the luminous giant mushrooms of Blackreach, climb to the Throat of the World and feel the hum of the time wound surrounding her, sleep in the towering trees of Falkreath with the warm summer haze settling heavy in the air. She could do all this, do _anything_ without worry or inhibition or the pressure of the future tugging at her ankles because her future was _nothing._

Aule grinned, suddenly breathless, and began sprinting toward the rippling waters of Lake Yogrim, lighter and happier than ever before, until her feet carried her off the wooden boards and she was sailing through the air, tumbling under the water, laughing as she realized she didn't even haveto _breathe_ anymore.

She was utterly, wholly free.

...

"Who in the Oblivion was she?" Galmar Stone-Fist roared, slamming his fists onto the hardwood table. He splayed his palms across the worn map of Skyrim, urging himself to forget the countless hours that Ulfric and him had spent in this room, planning their revolution, the thrill of _righteous_ ness pulsating through his veins, because this was _their_ land, _damn_ it—

But Ulfric was gone. Dead. And so was most of Windhelm.

All because of one goddamn girl, and her little thief man. He could still see them, slamming open the door to the barracks and charging into the throne room without abandon. The girl had dark hair and was filthy from days in the dungeon, her clothes a torn mess, but her eyes burned with an odd energy that he'd never seen from prisoners. Even the man beside her seemed weary, his grip on his sword sloppy from exhaustion. The man had dashed straight for the two guardsman posted at the doors, engaging them in a bold battle of fluid movements and cheap tricks, but not quite reaching the slick footwork of an assassin—a thief for sure. Meanwhile, the girl had walked calmly up to Ulfric as he rose from the throne and grinned at him, all bizarrely white teeth, and said, "Ulfric Stormcloak. Kill."

And then he was dead.

And moments later, he was not.

A chill ran up Galmar's spine, and he shook the memory from his mind. He could not, he _would not_ —he had seen truly horrific things in his lifetime, but nothing so unnatural as what had happened mere hours ago.

"Sir?" a voice came from the entrance to the war room.

Galmar paused. Steeled himself. "Come in."

A soldier walked in and saluted him: one fist over his heart, a nod of the head. _My life is yours_. Galmar tilted his head in response. "Your report, soldier."

"Sir, we've interviewed every citizen that is still—still alive," the soldier reported. Very abruptly, Galmar recognized him. Wunstaag was his name. He was a farm boy from down south, in Falkreath. He had burst into the Palace half-dead from frostbite, clutching a bloody iron sword like prayer beads, and declared that he was a true son of Skyrim, that he would gladly die for the cause.

He was one of the few soldiers still alive.

"None of the dock workers know who she is, or where she came from," Wunstaag continued. "One Argonian said he rescued her from the White River, but there was no hint as to her origin, excepting that she was floating on a large object made of a material he'd never seen before."

"What happened to the object?"

"It's gone now, sir. The Argonian said it floated down the river and into the Sea of Ghosts."

"Damn," Galmar growled. "And the guardsman who brought her in?"

"He was the one in the dungeon, sir."

Dead, then. Galmar scoffed. Of course. They had no leads now, except...

"The thief?"

"He's long escaped. We've sent a courier to Riften to notify the guards there, tell them to watch out for any suspicious travelers coming into the city. If he's returning to the guild, we'll find him."

It never was easy. Galmar turned back to the war table, tracing the path of the White River. It was impossible to tell where the mysterious girl could have come from. The river spanned half of Skyrim, and was connected to dozens of smaller rivers and streams. And Divines knew if that would help them tell where she had disappeared to.

"Sir?"

"What is it, soldier?"

"I know it's not my place to say, but...should you not be resting? You were wounded as well, sir."

"It's called healing magic, soldier," Galmar barked harshly. "Go and make sure the tales of this girl do not spread. We cannot have the entire country knowing that Ulfric was killed by a _child._ "

"...Yes, sir."

Wunstaag hurried from the room. Galmar waited one, two, three beats, then collapsed into a chair and clumsily uncorked a healing potion. The thief had done a number on him, thrusting a sword through his abdomen, and the wound still pained him. He drank the concoction greedily, sighing at the coil of warmth that unfurled in his chest.

Then, he rose, and yelled for another soldier. He had to arrange for the burial of the dead, create a team to search for the girl, check in on the survivors...

Galmar took a deep breath. There was much to be done, but he would not give in. He would not let their cause die.

"Have these delivered to High Hrothgar immediately. If the Greybeards choose not to involve themselves in this matter upon reading their letter, then perhaps the new Dragonborn will."

...

Aule marched up the hill to the golden structure gleaming in the moonlight, balancing the blade of the ebony dagger she had procured with console commands. At first she had given herself a sword, but after discovering she was unable to lift the damn thing with one hand, much less wield it properly, she settled for a dagger. Not that she knew how to use a dagger either, or even needed one, but it felt pretty cool to be strutting around with a sleek, lethal knife in her hand.

In any case, she had learned a valuable lesson: Godmode made her invincible, but it didn't actually change her physical strength. On the other hand, it did seem to give her an endless supply of energy, and she no longer had basic human needs—it had been approximately 14 hours since she had ate or drank anything, and even longer since she slept, and she felt fucking fantastic.

Letting out an excited whoop as she reached the Great Lift at Alftand, Aule pressed her fingertips reverently to the cool Dwemer metal. The enormous, cage-like elevator loomed before her, and she couldn't help but feel she was standing in front of St. Peter's Basilica, or Notre Dame, even though the structure wasn't nearly as large or as grand as the famous churches. But the exhilarating rush of awe was the same, the surge of disbelief because how was this _possible_ , this was hundreds, _thousands_ of years of history right before her eyes.

And it was all hers. Hers for the taking.

"Tcl," Aule said. _Collision -- > Off _popped up on the black screen. She stepped straight through the golden gate, pleased that she hadn't bounced off it like a dumbass. She wondered if she could actually just walk straight down through the ground to Blackreach, but the prospect of accidentally getting lost in the middle of the thick layer of earth was slightly intimidating. So, she said "Tcl" again ( _Collision -- > On_) and pulled the lever.

The floor of the elevator rumbled beneath her before it suddenly lurched downward; she just barely stopped herself from toppling over. Steam hissed and gears clicked, and then the light of the moon and stars was vanished, and holy shit she was heading toward Blackreach.

Albeit very slowly. The elevator was not especially efficient.

After a few dull, rather dim minutes, the lift came to an abrupt halt. Through the bars blocking the lift, she could see the enormous blue mushrooms illuminating the murky darkness, and small flecks of glowing dust floating about the shadows. Even the limited view from the elevator was incredible. Anticipation swelled inside her.

She used the "tcl" command again to walk through the bars, and swiftly turned collision on again to avoid accidentally walking underground. Now outside the confines of the lift, she could see the glittering ceiling, like thousands of gemstones were embedded in the dark rock. There were a couple structures visible, entrances to other ruins or perhaps that one alchemist's laboratory, shining with greenish light.

Aule stood in awe for a moment. Then, she grinned, turned to go explore, and —

Found herself face-to-face with a falmer.

"Holy fuck!" she shrieked, rapidly retreating backwards. The falmer hissed and leapt at her, swinging its sword with wild abandon.  "You scared the shit out of me."

Its blows swiped through her as they would normally, but caused no pain or damage. Finally, the makeshift weapon lodged itself solidly in her side, and still she didn't feel a thing.

"Huh," she said, staring down at the non-wound. "That's really weird."

She looked back up at the falmer. It seemed equally bewildered. "Oh my god. You are one ugly motherfucker."

Its translucent, white flesh was even creepier in 4D and in the cool (in both senses of the word, she supposed) lighting of Blackreach. Its skin was stretched taut over misshapen muscles and bulging veins, wrinkled around a narrow skull and pulled past sharp, yellowed teeth. There was a layer of faintly red, inflamed tissue over its eyes that made Aule feel physical repulsion, which, alright, that was enough.

"Ick. Falmer, kill."

Without so much as another breath, it dropped dead. Aule smiled. "Much better," she said cheerily, stepping over its corpse and onto the stone path that wound its way through the fallen Dwemer city.

...

With godmode on, it was not hard to be totally unafraid. There was always the shock factor of a falmer appearing from the darkness to frighten her, but any lingering fear faded with each attempted assault and subsequent reaffirmation of her invincibility. And so she meandered throughout Blackreach, leaving a trail of dead falmer behind her until at last she grew tired of saying "falmer, kill" repeatedly and simply let them be when they attacked; most of them seemed to realize she couldn't be damaged and just left her alone after some minutes. Two were actually persistent enough to keep following, though it seemed more out of baffled curiosity than anything else.

It was a little nice having company, even if they were vicious monsters. They kept their hisses to a minimum and the chauruses away, which was really all she could ask for. Those things were fucking disgusting.

"Man, this place is so cool. It's really too bad you can't see any of it. Like, seriously, it must suck to be one of you guys. The snow elves really got the worse end of the deal. I'd honestly rather be dead like the Dwemer, or wherever they disappeared to. I kind of ascribe to the theory that they vanished themselves into an alternate dimension, or dug their way to a different continent or something. Maybe to China," she joked. Her falmer companions, unsurprisingly, replied with nothing except the sound of their raspy breathing.

"This is a bit like talking to a pair of dogs." Glancing backward, she amended, "Two very ugly dogs."

Although, she was slowly getting used to their appearance. It was mainly the face that grossed her out. Those eyes. Ugh.

Strolling along the battered road was relaxing enough, even with company (perhaps moreso with company), and she walked for a while before the false sun of Blackreach came into view. The cavern was far more expansive than it had been on her computer screen. Unsurprising, since there was a shifted timescale in the game.

One of the falmer prodded her in the back with its sword, hissing. She was surprised to feel it at all, considering none of the other attacks elicited any sort of sensation. It jabbed her again, then twice more, and now she began to think that maybe it wasn't actually attacking at all.

"What?" She turned to look at it.

Evidently satisfied that it had caught her attention, it made a short noise and turned off the path toward the luminescent water. The second falmer grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her after it. Aule shuddered at the strange, glossy texture of its skin but allowed herself to be dragged along, more than a little interested in where the falmer were going. It was more than likely that they were planning on eating her, if what she remembered from the game about their dietary habits was correct, but that wasn't exactly a concern.

"If you do try and eat me, though, I'm going to be pretty disappointed," she said. "We were developing a nice camaraderie. It'd be a real shame for me to have to kill you guys."

The one further ahead squawked shrilly.

"I don't suppose you actually understood that, right?"

The one gripping her wrist hissed.

"Wait, really? Can you understand me?" Aule gaped.

"Ahh, has someone else come to be dinner as well?" a low, decidedly un-falmer voice said.

Looks like the falmer still had no English capability. They had just been announcing their arrival. The group had reached a small camp by the waterside, with a crackling fire and two chitin structures that must have been shelter. The other voice came from within one, and she saw that through the claw-like gate crouched a cat-person. A Khajiit. Wow. That was seriously weird to see face-to-face, way weirder than the orc from Nightgate. However, she only caught a glimpse before the falmer was bringing her to the fire and then motioning insistently at the ground.

Aule shrugged and sat down. The falmer sat down next to her.

Well, this was really fucking bizarre.

"Must be another one of their servants," she heard the Khajiit mutter. "Damn."

"I'm not!" Aule called. "Looks like I might be their guest, actually."

"A guest?" the Khajiit repeated. "How odd." There was a rustling of paper, then the faint scratch of what must have been a pen. Quill. Whatever.

Aule huffed in disbelief. "Are you writing that down? While you're a prisoner, and probably going to be eaten alive soon?"

"Don't be foolish, falmer-friend. J'zargo will not die today. J'zargo will escape with your help, so he may continue important research for the College."

"Oh my god. J'zargo?" This was the last place she had ever expected to find a vanilla NPC, but she wasn't complaining.

"So you have heard of J'zargo before," J'zargo preened.

"You bet I have, buddy. I'll get you out of here in just a minute."

The first falmer had dawdled off into the other structure and returned holding a cut of bloody meat that looked alarmingly fresh. It offered the flesh to Aule, who shook her head and quickly got up.

"Yeah, no thanks. That looks like it might be human, and I'm not about that life. Falmer, kill. Falmer, kill."

Her two falmer companions collapsed unceremoniously, and Aule went over to try and pry open the structure's gate. It was a lot easier than she had thought, and J'zargo stepped out in all his furry glory, disheveled and bloody.

"Many thanks, friend." He peered inquisitively at the two dead falmer. "How did you do that? A spell, perhaps?"

"Something like that. The real question is: why the hell didn't you get out of there when they were gone? This thing looks like it can be opened from either side."

"J'zargo is...a bit lost. And there are many more dangers in Blackreach than two falmer," he said sheepishly.

Aule snorted in amusement. "So basically, you're a scaredy-cat. Nice. Why'd you come down here in the first place if you couldn't handle it?"

"There were two others, hired for protection. They have both met rather unfortunate ends," said J'zargo, sounding not at all sorry about it.

"Oh? What were their names?" Maybe they were more vanilla NPCs. Maybe he'd hired, like, Stenvar or something. Although — were Khajiit even allowed inside Windhelm? It didn't seem like they were allowed inside anywhere. Not that it mattered in Windhelm's case anymore. Probably no one wanted to get in there after what she'd accidentally done. Oops.

"J'zargo does not have the best of memories."

Wow. What a cold bastard.

"Well, my name is Aule. Don't forget that one, 'cause I'm your new protection," she declared, grinning.

J'zargo looked her up and down. "You do not look the part, but J'zargo will place his trust in you. You dispatched of those falmer very swiftly. Tell, exactly, what spell you used?"

"Only if you tell me what sort of research you're doing. It must be very important. Very impressive," Aule said saccharinely.

"Yes, it is. J'zargo is working on a project so he may be promoted from apprentice, on the mushrooms of Blackreach. Although it was accomplishment enough to even reach the city, for you must first..."

He went on to describe how he obtained the attunement sphere from Enthir, who had apparently bought it from a sketchy, nameless adventurer while in Markarth, who had obtained it from who-knows-where. Probably Calcelmo, Aule deduced. It was interesting, though, that he hadn't gotten it through Septimus Signus' quest like in-game. It was also very interesting that J'zargo was in Blackreach in the first place, but she supposed it was a bit ludicrous to expect that all the NPCs just hung about their usual areas for all their lives, now that Skyrim was reality. Guess they didn't follow the same scripts.

As they walked back in the direction of the path (Aule taking the lead), J'zargo rambled on about what he'd discovered so far, about the alchemical properties of the mushroom samples he'd taken and his theories on the nature of the shimmering ceiling, about the fascinating Dwemer technology he'd seen, and more importantly, about how all his research would grant him recognition throughout the world.

"J'zargo is planning to write a book on Blackreach, you see," he said proudly. "I am one of the few scholars to have ever been down here. Many do not even believe it exists."

"Really? What do they think those giant lifts are for, then?" Aule asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You know. The Great Lift at Alftand and whatnot. They totally come down here."

"Truly? Khajiit finds that most interesting," J'zargo said. "We should go examine those."

"They're exits, too, so why don't you finish gathering data first, and then we'll leave through one of them."

"You seem very knowledgeable," J'zargo remarked as he bent to gather a crimson nirnroot. "Are you a scholar as well?"

"Hah. No. Just a fucking nerd."

"J'zargo does not recognize that title."

Aule snickered. "It's not a title. Nevermind. I'm just a person who likes games, is all, and helping you is a fun one at the moment."

"This research is no game," said J'zargo, affronted. "J'zargo is opening up an entirely new field of study. To himself, of course."

"Just you? Don't you think the College should come study this place, too?"

"No, no. Then J'zargo will not get enough credit."

Made sense.

J'zargo was highly intrigued by the quick fashion in which she dispatched of any enemies they encountered, which were mostly falmer and chaurus. He had insisted they keep a wide berth of any centurion or giant they saw, and Aule had gone along with it because there wasn't really a point to killing things she didn't have to. Other than proving she could — and the entire city of Windhelm was proof enough of that. Though she imagined it would be satisfying to see such enemies of such enormous proportion fall with just a few words.

Maybe another time. J'zargo was enough entertainment for now; she was still very amazed by the whole "cat-humanoid" shtick, and he was shamelessly, hilariously arrogant and self-serving. Made for a fun conversationalist.

They stopped occasionally for J'zargo to take a break, jot down notes and take a drink from his waterskin. She didn't bother putting up the appearance of needing sustenance or rest, and he didn't seem to notice either. The only oddity he did register were her clothes ("Interesting choice of armor, friend") and her inexplicable power. She always deflected or changed the subject if he asked about the latter.

It must have been hours later that J'zargo finally said, "Shall we head to the lift now? J'zargo is done here."

"Sure. Let's go." Aule paused, realizing she had absolutely no fucking clue where they were. "Actually, let me try something. Just stay right there for a second, okay?"

"Khajiit will wait for you here," J'zargo agreed. "Though he is not sure it is a good idea to split up."

"Don't worry. It'll only be for a second." Aule smiled reassuringly. "J'zargo."

"What is it?"

His RefID had appeared on the black screen. _0001c1a3._

"Help, Alftand elevator." _CELL: BlackreachElevatorAftand._

"I am not sure what you are requesting help with..."

"COC Blackreach Elevator Alftand."

And in an instant, she was standing at the entrance to the lift again. J'zargo's RefID was still selected on the screen. "Move to player."

"—go? Aule! J'zargo has found you again. What happened? Where..." J'zargo trailed off, attention caught by the lift mechanism.

"We're at the Great Lift at Alftand. It's another spell I developed," she explained.

"You really must teach me them," said J'zargo absentmindedly. "Let J'zargo look at this, and then we will go, yes?"

Aule wasn't sure whether to be pleased or annoyed with the fact that J'zargo barely questioned her absurd powers. She decided to go with pleased for now — it sure made things a lot easier.

"Whatever you say, buddy. I'll be waiting in the lift."

...

Before entering Nightgate Inn, where J'zargo had proposed spending the night (or rather, day, for it the real sun had been shining brightly when they'd emerged), the Khajiit stopped and turned to her, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

"J'zargo hopes it is not breaking any rules to ask, but," he hesitated, wringing his hands together nervously. "He is wondering which Daedric Prince you are, exactly?"

"What," said Aule.

"Is it wrong of Khajii to ask, then? J'zargo does apologize."

"No, no," Aule shook her head. "I just. Sorry? I'm not sure I understood your question. You think that I'm a _Daedric Prince_?"

J'zargo tilted his head, puzzled. "Is that a trick question?"

"I'm not a Daedric Prince," said Aule. "Why would you think that?"

"Your 'spells,' of course. And you do not seem like a mortal. You are very reckless and dressed very carelessly and do not eat or drink or rest. No offense intended," he added hastily.

"Okay, but," Aule paused. Actually, that was a goddamn fantastic explanation for her console command powers. At least in the short term. Plus, how fucking _cool_ was it that she'd been mistaken for a Daedric Prince? Holy shit.

"Yep. You're right. You caught me." Aule snapped and sighed theatrically. "Drat. And I thought this was a pretty good disguise, too."

"Maybe some different clothing next time," J'zargo suggested amiably.

"Good idea, pal. And I'm afraid I can't actually reveal my identity; that would just ruin all the fun, don't you think?"

J'zargo nodded doubtfully. "J'zargo supposes."

"But I'll just give you an artifact — a _boon_ — and you can figure it out yourself, how about it?" Aule offered, struck with a brilliant, terrible idea. "Consider it a reward for being such good company today."

"J'zargo would be most honored," he purred.

Okay. Time to think of an artifact that didn't actually contain the name of the Prince in it. She wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of adopting one of the Prince's identities completely. It was true that she was invincible and all, but did the rule still apply to the Aedra and Daedra? They were basically gods, right? It'd be best to pick one that wouldn't be too problematic to piss off. The weakest one. Peryite! Right.

"Help, Spellbreaker." _00045f96._

"Player dot add item 00045f96 one." The shield appeared in front of her, and she caught it in outstretched arms. It was made of Dwemer metal, too, which fit in perfectly with their little trip to Blackreach.

Aule handed it J'zargo. "Here. Spellbreaker. Figure out what it does on your own. And, uh, don't tell anyone about me. Like, seriously. I don't want to be hearing rumors about a Daedra being disguised as a dashing young lady, alright?"

God knows that would make her life more complicated. And she kind of wanted to try following an in-game questline. Being mistaken for a Daedric Prince would not be conducive to that shit.

"Of course," J'zargo said. "Many thanks. Will you departing now, or will you join me for a drink?"

She would, but it would be too easy to accidentally fuck up her cover story. Also, Daedra probably didn't have casual drinks with College apprentices. Gotta stay in character!

"Maybe another time. See you around, J'zargo."

"May your road lead you to warm sounds."

Aule grinned. She had an idea of where those warm sands were going to be. "COC Riften Stables."

Time to pay a visit to her partner-in-crime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, as you might have guessed: Thieves Guild! Also some background on who the hell Aule is.
> 
> And oh yes. There will be consequences for Aule's actions.


End file.
